Don't Know About The People
by Maggie Wilde
Summary: Art student Grace Gilmartin first meets Jonathan Crane at university, who later turns out to be her housemate. She thought he was just a rude git at first.
1. Prologue

**Notes**;

This is slightly AU/canon divergent, relating to mainly location and timeline.  
Feston and its university is entirely fictional.

Scarecrow is an amalgamation of the portrayals presented in several Batman comics. I've altered the timeline slightly, as in 'Masters of Fear' he went to college/became a professor/criminal all by 23 years old (Quite a feat, really).

Part One is set before he became Scarecrow.

This is a re-written version of my other Batman fanfic 'Saving Grace.' A lot of things are the same, much has been changed. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

_Approaching my village:_

_Don't know about the people,_  
_but all the scarecrows_  
_are crooked._

Kobayashi Issa

**Part One**

**Prologue**

It was a hot summer that year.

The kind of summer that made the backs of clothes stick liberally to perspiring skin. The way sweat rolled slowly down a single temple, fusing with damp hair. How the air fizzled with heat and insects chirruped loudly in the midst of dense grassland. It was night. The girl could feel in-between her fingers dew from the grass. She lay there stunned, half hanging out of her car, with her right hand on the damp grass. It was difficult to remember amidst the accident what exactly had taken place. It was difficult to remember one minute she'd been driving seventy to eighty miles an hour down the road. She felt a terrible pain in her head, and tried to move a hand to staunch the pain. She smelt smoke, a fiery smell that made her eyes water, her lungs clog up. She tried to move her limbs. Slowly, it came back to her as she moved painfully. Shock seemed to have numbed her body.

There was broken glass everywhere, and she was quite sure tiny little specks of it were embedded in her face. She ignored the pain that burst from her limbs as she dragged herself upwards. There was glass in her arms and thighs as she dragged herself out of the car onto the wet grass. She felt boneless. She tried reminding herself of who she was. The perspective of the night changed. The circumstances had altered drastically, more than she could ever imagine. There was a strange smell coming from the engine of the vehicle that was beside her. It was upturned, its great mechanical belly facing the starry sky. It felt fresh and cool underneath her body. About ten yards away was a battered black car, its fog lights still on. The headlights had been mashed inwards, puckered in like a mouth sucking on a sour lemon. The lights were bright in her eyes, but she began to realise what had happened. The air smelt of burnt grass and petrol.

From the car behind, a figure opened the door that creaked on its hinges. It door fell off with a loud clatter as the figure stumbled out. Tall and lanky was the figure that fell to the ground briefly, breathing loudly. The breathing was muffled, as if the mouth was covered by something. She squinted at the bright light, seeing the tall figure unfurl itself. She saw around what was supposed to the figure's head a sort of sack shape. She panicked, and scrabbled at the grass in order to get up. The grass gave way beneath her and dirt buried itself in-between her nails. The figure, a man whom she knew, had gathered his bearings and tore straight after her. She finally managed to get herself up, heart in mouth. She began to run, faster than she had ever run in her life. He was close behind her, calling her name. She kept going, before slamming straight into the ground at full force. She had pieces of grass in her mouth and dirt in her nose. The night was smoke ridden and cruel.

Words came to her; No coward soul is mine.


	2. Uncomfortable Truths

Every morning Grace Gilmartin goes for a run.

At first she'd really have to push herself out of bed, despite its protests. She'd do it before breakfast, when the air was still crisp with the night air and the songs of blackbirds drifted throughout the streets. She felt uncomfortable at first. Old, baggy sweatpants, rolled up to her knees to run in. Her somewhat stringy, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. Swish, swish, swish it went behind her head as she pounded down the pavement. She did a little loop around the area and by the time she started turning back, more traffic lined the streets. People glanced at her, curiously, out of habit. She felt her cheeks sting crimson with the exercise. She felt like walking the rest of the way home, wanting to escape back to the comfy recesses of her bed. That was how it started.

My plan to get better. To do better, to feel better.

To wake up fresh and clean with purpose - although she felt like lying in bed all day like she used to. She jogged every morning, except for the weekends, where she'd lie in later. Sometimes she did it just to get out of the house away from her parents. Her mum was catholic, and usually expected her at church on a Sunday. She had graduated from university a year and half ago, and since then had a series of jobs in retail, waitressing and cleaning. At the present moment, her jogging and painting was what kept her grounded. Her painting wasn't as good as it used to be. She saw her parents' house come slowly into view as she kept jogging, even if her thighs were burning and her face felt as red as a beetroot. Her parents' house had a detached house in Surrey, on a quiet avenue with oak trees that lined the large road. The neighbourhood was wealthy. It was conservative. She'd never been happy in Surrey; her accent was out of place. Surrey was closer to her mum's family, and her dad was happy to comply with his new job being in London. Grace finally stopped in front of the house, sighing loudly. Her house was on a quiet little avenue. She stopped her music, gazing at her house, loving and loathing it simultaneously. The strands of her hair were plastered around her face. The music was still drifting through her ears via her music player.

She had to tell them. Holding it in for any longer would make her burst. Her parents knew absolutely nothing about her and what she'd done. She had spent the last five years pretending to be two people at once; the quiet, studious, creative girl to her parents, and the funny, laid-back druggie girl to her 'friends' at university. She drank until she woke up with various cuts, bruises on her body, until she had lost her phone and woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom. She smoked variously, until her pockets were stuffed with empty filter packets, and her purse was empty. She injected heroin until the veins in her right arm died. She missed her exams in the second year, having to pay fifty pounds to re-sit it. That was because paramedics were reviving her on the bathroom floor, after an accidental overdose. She'd miss out telling them about the public vandalism, the various drunken one-night stands and the fact that she missed an exam since she'd overdosed in the bathroom. All they knew she had her heart broken and that sometimes she phoned up in tears because she was 'stressed' and 'lonely.'

Her mum would only ask her to be strong, tell her she was beautiful and that she had lots of friends. For the past year, she'd drifted away from her uni friends who turned out to not really be friends at all. Friends who she thought she could trust, had drifted away, like plywood at sea. She thought of them as self-indulgent, but realised she was just the same at uni. The trouble was, she was terribly lonely. A girl who who couldn't find a place to fit in anymore. She had once succumbed to the need to fit in, the fear of being ostracised if she did not. The only time she was herself, properly, was when she was painting. The drugs eventually forced her to an ultimatum in her third year of study. Since then, the process of giving up has been slow and arduous for her. The temptation was always there. And the psychological fallout was much worse than the physical. Giving up was in various stages. She went cold turkey at first. After a while she went to a rehabilitation centre. It had been the worse three years of her paintings were often entered on death and horror during that time. Yet she managed to pass her degree. How she did so, she'd never know. Her neighbour Mrs Torrington was walking her small dog, a large gold brooch on the lapel of her woollen coat. Her peroxide blonde hair was brighter than usual today.

"Hello Gracie," she said smiling tautly, continuing to walk on.

I have to tell them today, Grace thought idly glancing at Mrs Torrington's yappy dog. Tell them before you go back to university again. She would go back up north, where this university was, near York, where she originally lived until twelve. She slipped the earphones out of her ears as she entered the hallway. Grace was instantly greeted by the smell of fresh bread. Her mum had her back turned in the kitchen, and she was kneading some dough. The girl's eyes drifted towards the already baking piece of bread in the oven. Her palms were sweaty, clammy, and a large knot formed in her stomach.

"Good run?" her mum said, having heard the door around five minutes ago.

Her daughter was oddly silent; every time she came back from a jog she was usually, and quite terribly, out of breath. She nearly jumped in fright when the dog burst through the back door, tongue hanging out, golden fur soaking. It suddenly began raining very hard, and the washing was outside. Her mum sighed, slapping her hands together, the flour puffing into the air.

"Help me get the washing in?"

Grace liked to think she had a good relationship with her mum, but now she was going to completely and utterly ruin it, which brought tears to her eyes. The back of her throat burned with her unshed tears; she hadn't had a good cry in about three years. Her mum wore a checked shirt over ripped jeans, along with printed wellies on her feet. She felt a huge sweep of affection for her mum; she was going to hurt them by telling them about this. Her mum frowned a little, seeing the girl become teary-eyed.

"You alright, pet?"

She burst into tears. Her mum was so shocked she stood there gaping for half a minute. It had been quite a while since she last saw her daughter cry.

"Gracie?"

"I'm...I don't know what to say," her daughter spoke through her crying.

Her mum felt a little embarrassed. Her twenty-four year old who had been coping with herself away from home was crying like a child. She didn't move forward to embrace her, confused, perhaps a little frightened.

"I'm moving up to Feston to study postgraduate art…" she trembled.

"Well, that's wonderful news! A bit late to be telling me, but that's…great…"

Her mum was frowning deeply, her lips pressed together, looking as if she was sucking a lemon. She had the feeling that what she was going to hear now would not please her in the slightest. Was she pregnant? Her daughter ran a hand through her lanky, greasy hair, and she clutched at her music player tightly, for dear life, praying for courage.

"Mum...I had a heroin addiction at uni...I never wanted to tell you and dad but I couldn't keep it hidden forever." There was a pin-drop silence, as the girl predicted. There was a pin-drop silence; there was only the sound of the oven whirring. Her mum's face was indescribable. The dog ran through the room. The girl began to cry when she saw her mum had turned back round to the dough. Grace stood there in shock, her lip quivering, repeating 'Mum' over again, desperately waiting for a response. She touched her mother's shoulder, which was shaking slightly.

"Mum?"

"The sooner you go away to do your degree the better," her mum sniffled, but she sounded like she was about to breathe fire.

"I coped all by myself, and now I'm better. Wouldn't you rather know now?" Her mum span back around, her eyes flaming.

"That's not the point! The point is the fact that you are not the girl I've known for twenty-four years! What else do you need to tell me? That you're addicted to nicotine and alcohol as well? Slept with a dozen men? You're pregnant? Have an STD?"

The girl turned her head away, becoming angry, but her face reddened. She had done exactly all those things, although three one-night stands wasn't exactly 'a dozen boys.' It was her saving grace she hadn't become pregnant or caught a sexually transmitted disease.

"You deserve to know the real me, mum. I need you to help me." Her mum was quiet for a few minutes. Eventually she murmured she would tell her dad when he came home from work. The girl wiped her tears away angrily with the back of her hand, sniffing harshly. She suddenly hated the back of her mother's head; that dyed hair that looked like straw from all the wear and tear throughout the years. She hated to think of her straight-laced father, who would come home, with his bloody shiny briefcase and smiling brightly.

"I never expected you to understand, but you have to know…" Grace wept.

Her mum was kneading the bread very hard now, she in fact she had kneaded it too much, and it was becoming unusable.

"Just...I need time to mull this over, Grace. Don't come back until church." She and her mum usually went on a Friday morning, together. The girl walked over to the door of the kitchen.

"I'm not going, Mum." Her mum sighed loudly, and span back around.

"Please don't argue with me, Grace," she replied.

"I'm not going. Where was it when I was going through hell?" the girl snapped, having finally lost her temper amid the tears.

Her mum just stood there, astounded with her own daughter. It was as if she had lost the young girl she had loved so much overnight. But the girl, oddly enough was right. And she wasn't a girl; she was a young woman now. She realised she had no clue about her daughter; only that everything had gone smoothly from school through to university. That she was just an average girl, who fitted into society well, despite her creative ways. The front door closed. Her dad took off his raincoat and hung it up, frowning at his wife and daughter. The girl saw his body sagged in reaction. He'd come early. Being one of the top heads in his department he wasn't often needed on a Friday.

"What's happened?" he asked.

Grace didn't look at him, as she moved quickly upstairs. He called for her name but he was astounded when she didn't reply. She was always so compliant, but this was not the Grace he knew. She locked herself in her room for the rest of the day, and refused dinner and her dad's requests to talk to her. He began talking to her outside the door; what had happened, why had she upset her mother, why was she acting so ….out of sorts? He didn't like disorder that ruptured his daily life. Most of all, he didn't understand emotion, and probably never would or would want to. He kept knocking on her door, until she flung open the door and told him while they sat on the bed. He was aghast and nearly dropped the mug of tea he brought up for her. This act of kindness by her dad reduced her to tears, and she felt the guilt even more so at this point. Her dad, whom she always thought slightly resembled actor Jerry Orbach, just stood there his greying hair catching the light, and for the first time she'd seen, his lower lip trembled.

"I….Gracie I don't believe it…." He put his arm round her for a long time as they stared at the floor. Perhaps the timing had been off. Maybe she should've told them at the time. Maybe, maybe, maybe.


	3. A Home Away From Home

She was frightened of being alone. She didn't feel frightened anymore.

Grace Gilmartin, twenty-four years of age, stood in front of her suitcase checking she had absolutely everything.

She had one large suitcase and a holdall that was specifically for her art utensils. Leaning against the white wall was her easel. _That would definitely be a pain to carry onto the probably very busy train._ She was taking the main train up north, changing twice before she'd reach Feston, a small town near York. It was seven in the morning, so her dad wouldn't have left for work yet. She managed to find, in a suburban area of Feston, a small three-bedroom terraced house that was looking for two occupants. _Must be a non-smoker and a postgraduate student. No pets._ It had a contact number and she'd spoken to the landlord who had the most northern accent she'd ever heard. He didn't take heed of her similar accent, presuming she was local. York originally had been her hometown - she was looking forward to returning home. She noted it was only going to be two occupants in the house, for the landlord could not find another tenant. The shortage of postgraduates this year was astonishing, he'd remarked. Tuition fees, after all, had risen in the last two years.

The landlord didn't tell her who the other student was, only that they were male. She stuffed her mobile away into her saddle bag and picked her things up, having to make a second trip. She placed her things at the front door, ruffling her dog's fur when he came to greet her at the bottom of the staircase. Her mum was in the kitchen, already up and making cakes. Cakes for the annual fair at the church today, a raffle, a competition, karaoke, a service, games….it was all so dreadfully dull, she had often found the people there frustratingly patronising, especially when she was asked about 'what she was doing with her degree.' She shuffled into the kitchen, hitching her saddle bag further onto her shoulder. Her dad was sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper spread across the table. She cleared her voice a little awkwardly, causing her dad to casually look up. His face was impassive.

"I'm going now," she spoke, her voice wavering.

Her mum spoke without turning, whipping the cake mixture together with a little more force than necessary.

"See you soon."

She knew she had to give them time, but it felt so rotten, cold and formal.

"Good luck for this year, Gracie," was all her dad said.

She felt didn't even know her parents herself. She'd never experienced such detached coldness from them. She held her tears until she got onto the train. Her parents didn't ask what she was doing, how she was getting there. She felt completely drained, unloved and alone. People on the streets gave her curious glances, with her struggling. The easel was giving her the most trouble. Once she got onto the train and towards her allocated seat, which was next to a middle-aged man in a suit, she began crying, uncontrollably. She hadn't cried like this for so long. The man noticed the girl's tears, and five minutes later he moved having been made extremely uncomfortable. Even the ticket man gave her an awkward glance. The train journey was three and a half hours long. Woking to York, changing in London on the way. After she got off at York, she had to take a bus to Feston, which was around half an hour long.

Her spirits were already further dampened when she had seen her ex-boyfriend in Vauxhall train station, sipping on a coffee with her ex-friend. She found out around a month after their spilt, her old friend Chloe had started something with him. It had deepened her wounds, seeing them together on that day made her feel more wretched than ever. The taxi driver at the station faffed around, trying to put her easel into the back of the car, and she was forced to ride in the front with him. He was trying to talk to her, asking where she was going with the art easel, making a poor joke about artists. She was hardly listening to him. It was now pouring with rain, so hard that it bounced off the tarmac and concrete pavement. The road that the terraced houses were on seemed a little bleak. The house that she stood in front of seriously needed new paintwork. There were various household appliances that had been dumped outside, probably unusable now because it was raining, and they appeared as if they had been outside for about a month; there was rust growing around the corners of the metal was a straw mat outside, infused with damp and mud.

The front bay window had its rather worn looking curtains drawn, the appearance suggesting they'd not been opened for a long time, perhaps a few months. It unnerved her slightly. She was meant to wait for the landlord; he would go through the agreement with her, and she would sign it. He told her she could move in straight away. Her keys were in the kitchen on the table. _Wherever the kitchen was._ After leaning her easel against the wall of the house, the number fifteen barely hanging off the dilapidated wall, she knocked on the door very loudly. Her knuckles thumped with pain afterwards. Her new housemate was supposed to let her in. She just hoped desperately he was there. She knew what students were like, especially that of the male. Still, he was a postgraduate, like she had been told. That was all she knew. She hadn't the chance to get a name. The rain had soaked through her hood, and ran down her face in rivets. She blinked the water out her eyes painfully, spotting a doorbell and pressed it a couple of times. No doubt the guy would be in bed. She had to make generalisations. From what she'd experienced, the student male clan seemed to have the same mindset, bright or not, lazy or not, rich or not.

Grace heard vague booming music in the distance, down the street, which she couldn't make out. Her hands were hardening on her suitcase handle, the holdall's strap was cutting into her shoulder, despite her thick woollen coat. She was moving her lips, murmuring, open the flipping door. She rang the bell four times, now indifferent to first impressions. She felt, slowly, the tears well back up. She was all alone, little Grace Gilmartin, with no friends and with now an estranged family. She impatiently rapped harder on the door, shouting a 'Hello' as loudly as she could. There was no sound; it was just pure silence, apart from the traffic in the distance and the splatter of rain. Growing impatient, she noticed the front window of the house was slightly open. It was a vertical oblong in shape, and opened inwards from below. She wasted no time, her patience snapping finally. She wasn't going to be the victim in all this, especially after this tiresome day. Thankfully it opened inwards enough so she could slip inside, the musty-smelling curtain (just as she suspected) brushing over her head. It was terribly dark inside, and her foot caught on the ledge of the window sill. She tumbled to the ground, catching her knees on the worn carpet. Her right knee throbbed in pain. The house smelt musty and damp.

"Christ, smells like something's died in here," she muttered, brushing bits of lint from her knees.

She felt around in the dark, until she touched the cold metal of a door handle. It led out into a tiny hallway, which was also dark.

Seeing the painted glass of the front door, she twisted the lock, and flung open the door, rushing out to grab her things. _I could have been a burglar, would have been so easy. Clearly this guy is a very inexperienced student. Or just arrogant. Or naïve-_

"Who the hell are you?" suddenly came a sharp, raspy voice from the end of the tiny hallway.

A door had opened, flooding light in, and she could see beyond the figure, a patio door and a small kitchen. She wasn't really interested in the figure; quite frankly she was pissed off. Soup was being cooked, she sensed.

Grace let her suitcase drop and shook her damp hair irritably.

"Your new housemate, pal, and apparently you're deaf as a post."

* * *

**Notes**:

Woking is in Surrey, a county near London. York is a city in Yorkshire, north England. Fictional Feston is near York.


	4. Hostile Beginnings

The figure abruptly turned around, letting the door slam behind him. She gawked at the now shut door, not quite believing his rudeness. Not allowing this to faze her, she brought her easel into the hallway. The hallway was modest yet cramped. She turned on the light, via the light switch next to her throwing the place into ungodly light. She could see every crack and crevice, which was covered in dust. Ahead of her, a steep carpeted staircase, which looked like it hadn't been hoovered for….God knows how long. She began muttering to herself…._back to the bloody first year of my undergrad degree. People who don't know how to look after themselves and standard personal hygiene._ The kitchen door rapidly flung back open, emitting a slight gasp from her. The figure, who was lanky and bespectacled, propped the door open for her but remained quiet. The dirtiness of the house and the discourtesy of her new housemate did not faze her in the slightest. Any other person would be discouraged or wary, but she strolled into the cheaply furnished kitchen, whipping off her scarf and dumping it on the kitchen chair as if she had been there for months already. She hadn't realised for a few minutes she'd been taking in the state of the flat's garden below them, when he spoke.

"Your keys are on the table," he said, his back turned to her.

She turned to look at her new housemate. He was lanky and thin as a rail, dressed in grey woollen trousers and a jumper with several holes in the arm. He was stirring a funny-smelling broth in a large saucepan on the gas stove. He'd spoken quickly, but she could detect an American accent in his raspy voice. He sounded like he hadn't talked in months. Either that or he was a very heavy smoker.

"Didn't you hear the door go?" she replied.

He still didn't turn around. Grace was growing impatient and whipped the keys up, jangling them to get his attention. When that failed, she leaned against the sink and craned her neck to get him to look at her. He was stirring a soup, his long, spidery fingers gripping a wooden spoon. He reached across towards the right of him, for the salt and pepper. His movements were lithe and quick, a touch of impatience to them.

"Barely. I was detained upstairs," he replied. She raised an eyebrow.

"Mind showing me where my room is?" she tested, watching his face. He definitely wasn't her age, she decided. Perhaps he was a lecturer? _Explains the sour mood,_ she thought.

"Grace Gilmartin, by the way." It was half a minute before he turned around, and faced her directly. He had unfriendly, glassy eyes beneath rounded wire-framed glasses. His face was angular and gaunt-looking. She felt like she had been turned to stone, feeling like perhaps his thinness was not due to student savings on food.

"Up the stairs, second door on the right. All the rooms are upstairs. You are next to me. The third door is the bathroom. The key to your room is the same you have just picked up." She swallowed, nodding slowly, but pulled out a goofy smile. He was the most aloof American she'd ever come across. Her previous university had been full of them, but they had all been so wonderfully affable. _Still, one most soldier on_, she thought. _Perhaps he's really shy_.

"Brilliant! I might need some help with my easel – pretty heavy and those stairs look tricky…" He just stared at her as if she landed from a different solar system. He blinked only once, then cleared his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing a little. His hard gaze washed over her like tidal wave, leaving her with a feeling of despoilment.

"Jonathan Crane." He put out a hand, and hesitantly, but still smiling somewhat, she shook it. His handshake was surprisingly strong, and she noticed how his fingernails dug into her skin somewhat. His nose wrinkled when he touched her, and she immediately sensed something. He disliked her already. He told her she could leave the easel down here, just as long she didn't get paint everywhere. She finally snapped, pausing at the door.

"Since when do you care about how clean the place is?" She left him to stew as she hauled her two bags up to her room. She didn't analyse the bedroom. She simply threw her bags down and flopped onto her bed, which already had a duvet and pillows without their covers. The room was freezing. She felt her tears slip out, until they rolled into her ears, making them pop. Her nose became blocked. She began to sob, and as the sun set, she felt her eyes close.

* * *

It was very dark when she woke up, and the night felt very bleak. The streetlamps from outside, beyond the garden and onto another street shone in through a chink in her curtains, casting an orangey glow in the room. She briefly forgot where she was and what happened in her life. Then it came crashing down like a ton of bricks upon her, crushing the breath out of her lungs, and she sucked in a pained, tired breath. The parents. The confession. The crumbling smelly house. The uncouth, strange housemate. Her utter loneliness. She began shivering, for the house still retained its coldness, furthered by the night. It was only September, but this year had been very cold, and it was going to become colder ever so. The only thing Grace could do, to rid herself of the intense loneliness she was feeling was to unpack everything. She did it at a slow rate, humming a tune and plugged her little vintage style analogue radio into the socket beside her bed. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, when she'd woken. It was the best feature of the house so far, apart from the fact that she had a large window that reached from top to bottom of her wall. She just hoped it was a good view.

Sick of the radio, she pulled out her netbook and started to play music once the tiny computer was started up. Her mind drifted to that of her old life, back in her first university. How those friends eventually drifted away from her, no matter how hard she had tried to pull them back, with the tips of her fingers. They had been like sand running through thin fingers. She was disappointed to find, that people in general did not bother. She only had to count on herself. Her mind drifted back to her ex-boyfriend and her ex-friend, Chloe, who had eloped with Charlie after a month of splitting with her. Grace shook her head hard. _Why on earth was she bringing up these painful memories?_ Was it become she was now so completely utterly alone with her thoughts, no family and a rather odd housemate in a dank house? She felt like her chest was a birdcage and the bird that was once squawking and shrieking to be let out, pecking at the bars of the cage, now had died its decomposing body on the floor.

* * *

He could hear her, upstairs. _Clear as a bell._ He was stood in the kitchen; glass in one hand, pills in the other. Plain, white headache pills rested in the palm of his hand. It was incredibly dark outside for five o' clock. Winter was approaching, and it was approaching early. The bright light in the kitchen reflected off the painted yellow walls giving the room an ugly tone. He could hear her, her feet banging on the thin floorboards. _What was she doing?_ He tipped the pills into his mouth with ease and swallowed them down with the glass of water, gulping until it was all gone. She was being incredibly noisy. He could sense his irritation growing, but tried to calm it. Perhaps if he went up there and told her to stop it. He needed to tell her about the room upstairs, in the attic. He had to tell her about the certain house rules. Wiping his palms on his trouser legs, he exited the kitchen, walked through the hallway, and ascended the stairs. He craned his head up, stretching to hear the noise as he heard the tuneful sound of a guitar twanging. He felt apprehensive but before he could even think about knocking on her door, she'd flung it open, the music momentarily becoming louder; then it was shut off as the fire door of her room closed with a slam. He halted stiffly on the stairs, staring at her. She didn't happen to see him at first, plodding along the hallway.

"Oh…hi," she spoke, halting immediately when she spotted him. Her voice was strangely high, as if she'd recently been crying. She moved automatically out of the way and made for him to pass, but he didn't move. She raised her eyebrows, irking him slightly, her arms crossed as she waited for him to respond. However, he didn't, just staring at her, making her feel extremely uncomfortable. She was forced to speak.

"Did the landlord come over? I dropped off in my room," she said. He shook his head, clearing his throat.

"No, he didn't. He is like that. So I thought I'd just tell you about the house to fill you in."

She seemed rather bored at his statement, and spoke no further. _Thankfully_, he thought - her accent was very strong. He'd heard nothing like it before but they all seemed to talk like that around here. He was at an established university, yet the town's occupants talked hillbilly style. He wasn't sure what the Brit alternative term was. It was incredible how quickly he gained a new housemate. He wasn't expecting any one to move in with him and made sure it stayed that way. It was a week before the semester started, and no one had really shown an interest in the house apart from a couple of people back at the start of the year, who were repulsed and scared off by his rude behaviour. He did not want anyone living with him. They had all been undergraduates anyway. So he specified to the landlord to advertise the house only mentioning postgraduates. The girl in front of him was anything but special as he quickly analysed her. Hoops in her ears. Tattered coat and cheap boots. Dark eyes with lifeless mouse-brown hair. Arched eyebrows that gave her a permanently defensive look. A voice that sounded like she'd smoked too many cigarettes over the years. _What did she look like?_ Ah, yes, the foreign word coming to him, one that he'd heard since he'd been here. _Chavvy. Common. Not someone he'd like._ Shaking the image from his mind, he pulled his gaze away, realising he'd been staring at her. She'd been waiting for him to say something, bemused by his peculiar behaviour.

"Take a _picture_…" she began, but he cut her off immediately.

"The landlord said the attic room upstairs is off limits. There are hardly any floorboards up there, so if you want to avoid a nasty accident, just don't go looking for it…" She raised those arched eyebrows again. "I tend to study quite late, at least until two o' clock in the morning, so please keep the music low, at least by nine. I have eight o'clock seminars on Thursday and Friday so try not to make too much noise, especially on Thursday night." He could tell she was losing her patience, a little dimple had formed in her cheek, and he could tell she was grinding her teeth, ever so slowly.

"What's special about Thursday?" she enquired, keeping her voice sweet.

"Well, students tend to go out...on that night," he said, matter-of-factly. She scoffed at him, pushing past, and started to go down the stairs.

"I don't think you'll find I'm that kind of girl," she spoke, feet slamming down on each step. "Not any more…" She had muttered the last part, but he had ears of a bat. He watched her leave the house, the front door slamming as hard as it possibly could. _I wonder what kind of girl you are then_, he thought.

* * *

She'd soon finished her shopping in Tescos. The trip consisted of pushing past people somewhat tiredly with her trolley, becoming agitated quickly when she couldn't find what she wanted. She hated food shopping with a sincere passion. After a while, her frustration became misery, once her tiresome mind reminded her that she was utterly alone and that the future looked as uninviting as a high, dark mountain that was impossible to climb. The darkness outside, highlighting some of the town's lights, emphasised the inescapable sadness. She wondered if her mum was thinking about her, her mum whom she'd always been close to. Catching a taxi back, feeling the light patter of rain again as she exited the vehicle and struggled with her food bags to the dank terraced house, which was her new home, she ran a bath as soon as she stepped inside. It was her method of healing. A bath. Ignoring the grubbiness of the room, the grit that sat in-between the tiles, the dirt that clung to the plumbing pipes and the cobwebs scattered around the ceiling, she poured in a new bottle of bubble bath, and sat on the toilet, waiting patiently. It took a while to fill. Not bothering to wonder whether her strange housemate was in, she went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea and grab some chocolate. Despite the dirtiness of the house, everything seemed to be immaculate; everything was in order. She opened up the cupboards and found the crockery all stacked up neatly. She began to put some of her food away, briefly looking in his cupboard seeing whatever little was in there, was also neatly stacked. Briefly looking around, she put quickly put everything that was his upside down.

She shut the cupboard as soon as she heard a slam of a door, smirking a little to herself. Seeing it was just next door, she re-arranged everything in the cupboards as well. Grace wasn't even sure why she was doing this. Antagonising her new, rude housemate certainly wasn't a wise move. When she heard the front door slam, she managed to stifle a chuckle. However, the voice did not belong to the guy; it belonged to a young woman, around her age. Curious, she moved closer to the door, trying to listen in, but all the noise the woman was making was just inane chatter. Pouring milk slowly into her tea, adding the lovely large amount she was used to, she heard footsteps. She felt a small cruel jump of joy in her stomach, knowing he was going to find his little neat heaven ruined. Devastated. A catastrophe. Grace was beside the fridge when the young woman stepped in, her eyes wide, taking in the smallness of the kitchen. She had very large eyes and her dirty blonde hair hung down in wisps. Grace almost felt like being rude - but she stopped herself. _You're starting over. Stop being so childish. Clean slate, remember?_ As she turned around properly to greet them, she was suddenly caught in the sharp gaze of Jonathan Crane, who had to stoop slightly in the doorway. Her tea was scorching hot in her hands.

"Alright," she greeted them, trying to pull what resembled a cheery smile.

"You must be the new housemate," replied the woman, an American accent distinct. _Thrown in the deep end were you?_ she thought sarcastically. _Needed a bit of home to get you fitted in?_

"Yep. I'm Grace," she returned, smiling sheepishly under their gazes. Grace felt her awkwardness drop for a while, realising she felt like being rude to the woman because of the man behind her.

"I'm Dina. I'm a PhD student," she said, trying to dispel the awkwardness. It didn't work. Grace swirled the tea in her hands, desperate for her bath and chocolate.

"And you?" she asked him stiffly, trying to seem interested. He replied without a bat of an eyelash.

"PhD student also. Psychology and chemistry," was his haughty reply. She raised an eyebrow.

"That's an unusual mix," she replied, hoping to dispel the awkwardness, but it wasn't going away.

"Not at all," he replied cooly. "One of the most important aspects of psychology. Our brains are chemical. Dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine for example are three important chemicals that affect our behaviour and mood."

"Serotonin," repeated Grace out loud, smiling. "My doctor once said eating chocolate literally boosts serotonin levels..."

"The ingredient tryptophan," finished Crane for her, although his voice was cold. "The effects, unfortunately, are short-lived." Unfortunately, thought Grace. Suddenly she felt a little inadequate, and wasn't sure why she was afraid to say what she was studying. Dina already asked the dreaded question before Grace could finish her anxious thoughts.

"Um, I'm a Master's student. Doing, er, fine art."

"Oh wow, complete opposite!" exclaimed Dina, smiling again, rather attractive dimples showing in her cheeks. "There's plenty of psychology in art, wouldn't you agree?" She said, turning to look at Crane. His interest seemed piqued, but only slightly.

"What type of art do you do, may I ask?" he asked Grace, chilling eyes rooting her to the spot. "I myself find the work of Francis Bacon fascinating." Momentarily she was impressed by his knowledge.

"I used to experiment with ideas like that...Now I'm more Monet. Landscapes, particularly natural ones. Seems calmer, safer," she said, briefly carried away by her enthusiasm. They both bid their goodbyes, before turning off and she could hear a door slam. There was a lot of door slamming in the house. Grace stood there for a minute, her mouth open, the mug and chocolate bar still in her hands. It was going to be an interesting semester. _Little did she know._


	5. Down To Earth

The first art class was at nine o' clock in the morning.

She was looking forward to opening her oil paint bottles and sniffing linseed oil. Pick the dried paint from the brush bristles. Wipe her hands on her little apron, and paint away until the daylight changed and moved and she couldn't concentrate anymore. She wondered what the art studio would look like. It was a very early art class and they lasted two hours, three days of the week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday at all different times of the day. A typical student's week. She thought about getting a job. She could never find one in her undergraduate days, and she always had the money she earned during summer to help her. Sometimes her parents would keep her afloat, but she never liked them to help her out too much. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but the insistent banging she heard two doors away down the small corridor had kept her awake. It sounded like they were at it, but she couldn't tell. She was pretty sure there'd been another student as well, maybe a guy. Grace thought she heard screaming at one point - the most vocal sex she'd ever heard, certainly reaching number one. She only smoked when particularly stressed, and this certainly was a stressful situation. She also hoped he smelt it. The twat. The noise simply wouldn't cease - the screaming was beginning to freak her out. Man or woman? Sighing loudly, Grace padded down the hallway in her bare feet, oversized t-shirt and pyjama shorts, her fag hanging out her stood outside his door for a second, hearing the girl's groans. She couldn't hear him at all, wondering if he was even there. What on earth was going on in there, she wondered.

Was he sacrificing her? Was she having a séance and had become demonically possessed?

"Oh for Christ's sake," Grace murmured, taking the cigarette out her mouth and suddenly pounded on the door very hard, her hand thumping in pain once she took it away. The noises ceased for a moment.

"OI! Could you keep the primeval noises to a minimum? Any more and the zoo keeper will be around. I've got a nine-am in the fucking morning!"

She turned away, taking a drag of her cigarette, blowing out, feeling sufficiently satisfied, her demons vanishing momentarily. The noise had not continued, and she managed to get another few hours of peaceful sleep before her radio went off, blasting music in the room.

* * *

Brushing the little knots out of her hair, seeing the circles under her eyes, Grace prepared herself for the day ahead. She ended up having a terrible dream about her addiction, which already made her feel like she'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed. At around eight o' clock, she had her breakfast and packed her art utensils in her holdall. She rather hoped she would not bump into either Crane, Dina or mystery student this morning, doubting they'd be up. She's probably recovering, she mused sarcastically. However, Grace could not be more wrong. Apparently her housemate was an early riser for he was making coffee when she entered the kitchen at half seven, the cold tiles of the kitchen bringing her into reality. He was tapping his long fingers on the surface, his back to her the kettle boiling when she entered, clad only in her shorts and over-sized t-shirt, stifling a yawn. He was dressed in a thick navy dressing gown, and his hair was a little muzzy. She cluttered about around him, yawning properly this time. He still didn't turn around and he nearly made her jump when he did. He was extremely tall, a height she guessed might've peaked at six foot three. She poured corn flakes into her ceramic blue bowl, picking out a flake and munching on it hungrily. His face was quite impassive as he stood there clutching his steaming mug of coffee.

"Good _morning_," she said to him cheerily, although she was far from cheery. "Sounds like you had a _really_ good night's sleep." She felt his stare pierce her as she made her breakfast, like a pin to a balloon.

"You know, and it stated _clearly_, that there was to be no smoking in the house," he said calmly, but somehow she sensed the threat beneath the words.

"And if there could be such a thing as 'house rules', perhaps loud sex at three in the morning would be abolished."

His cold eyes, for the briefest moment flickered and she snorted, shaking her head. She really felt like antagonising him today, one; because she was dog-tired, had a nine o' clock, two, because she had a splitting headache as a result from her nightmare, and three because his girlfriend made sounds that was a cross between a hyena and a whale.

"I'm going to let the landlord know about this," he said, trying to keep a calm composure.

She wondered if it would break any time soon. He seemed like he was constantly on edge about something, that or he had a large poker stuck up his arse.

"Well, by all means, call the landlord, hypocrite. You were telling me about making noise about coming back from a night-out, automatically presuming I go to clubs," Grace snapped back at him, snatching her mug and cereal bowl off the surface, turning her back on him and storming back up to her room.

In her room she felt like throwing her mug across the room before realising it would be a tragic waste of tea. It was just bad luck she'd ended up with a rude housemate.

When ready for class, she saw him at the foot of the stairs and slightly halted. His look was simultaneously indifferent and frosty, as she walked past him towards the front door, her bag shuffling. Her annoyance was soon forgotten as she spent ten minutes looking at her map trying to find the way to campus. She was unused to Yorkshire weather, forgetting it was much colder. Why was this town, Feston, a small respectable English town so damp, dark and unwelcoming? She spent five to ten minutes walking down the long terrace of houses, all bay-windowed; some with stairs going to a basement flat like hers, some without. Some curtains were drawn, so were wide open, and she had a glance into student rooms. One window was aligned with empty beer cans and wine bottles, as if for decoration or celebration.

The sky, surprisingly enough for this part of the country, was clear, the sun casting a hazy glow over the little student houses. It was a lot colder without cloud cover however. She had to pass through many of these streets to get to her university, which she had researched extensively on the internet. She saw as a shortcut, there was a little park to cross before entering the University through the back, and was surprised by the nature that surrounded her. It was as if she was briefly cast away from the dank town into another part of the country. The land dipped around her and rolled into the distance. Misty fog hung above the grass. It was extremely cold, for September. This year was going to bring a harsh winter. Atop the hill was when she finally entered campus, crossing a courtyard, hearing the clock tower strike. Her heart clenched; it was already nine and she was going to be late. Across the road, and into an incredibly ugly-looking sixties building with brown brickwork and heavily blackened window frames; the Arts Centre. The campus had been teeming with people, young and old alike, just like the buildings. She had been nearly run over by a couple of bicycles, and two boys, most likely undergraduates, had been messing around and nearly knocked her off her feet. It was like playing a game of dodgems passing through campus, but she was relieved when she entered the art room, one of many, was not difficult to find and upon entering, she was greeted with glorious light that fell down from a large ceiling window. A jovial, loud voice greeted her as she walked in.

"Hello, my dear! Welcome to graduate Fine Art! Take a seat with an easel…"

She turned to see a frail woman, with a terrible posture grin at her. The woman was so badly round-shouldered it looked as if you could balance a full tea cup on her back and it wouldn't spill.

She was covered from head to toe with an excessive abundance of jewellery, and her frazzled greying hair was pulled back slightly with a bandana. She wore a (hideous, Grace thought) colourful skirt that covered her feet and a little sheepskin gilet. Her spidery, leathery hands were covered with henna patterns and silvery rings. Grace thought she was the most interesting person she had ever met. She wanted to paint her. Enlightened, she nodded, smiled and sat down to a rather grumpy looking girl on her left, and a skinny, frightened looking boy on her right.

"Right!" spoke the lady, clapping her hands, her jewellery jangling.

"My name is Heather Leigh…" She had spoken for half an hour about the sessions, the course, herself, art, paintbrushes, the university and students before Grace finally began to nod off, her eyes tired, her face sagging.

"Oh boy….Thirty minutes in, and I've already created a caricature of her..." said a deep voice, and Grace jolted herself awake.

She glanced around the room quickly, forgetting where she was briefly. Heather Leigh was still talking, her eyes still owlishly gazing round at the students with great enthusiasm, her jewellery still jangling as she swept her arms around like that of a windmill. Grace turned her head to find the source of the voice and noticed the grumpy girl, drawing on a small sketchpad. Her chin was resting on the palm of her right hand, and she drew with her left, looking entirely displeased, and bored.

"Dropped off. What've I missed?" Grace whispered, taking a better look at the girl's drawing. The girl smirked, her long straight blonde hair swishing to a side. Grace noticed she had various piercings; lip, nose and a somewhat impressive tattoo on her shoulder of a skeleton. Definitely the arty-student, she thought.

"Nothing except this woman's impending insanity," replied the girl.

The lecturer now turned her attention to the course at hand.

"Finally…" Grace muttered.

If anyone could win an Olympic medal for talking, it would be Heather Leigh. The last hour Grace experimented with all her paints. It was merely an introductory lesson. She sorted out the paints which needed to be thrown out, along with her paintbrushes. She never was consistent with cleaning her equipment, thinking of a friend she knew back at school, who was ever so clean. She had an apron shoved deep down at the back of her holdall somewhere, and smiled. The blonde girl was packing up her things, a ready-made cigarette in her mouth, her hair slung back in an elastic band by the time Grace had looked up. Already Grace had felt a weird connection with this girl. She was the sort of person you could tell you had a serious heroin addiction a couple of years ago, and she wouldn't even bat an eyelash. She shuddered to think what Crane would think, if he ever found out. Which he wouldn't. _Ugh_…She thought. She'd briefly forgotten about him.

"Balls…need a lighter," muttered the girl, patting her denim jacket pockets. "You know where the nearest corner shop is? The campus is tiny, but I doubt I can find anythin' with all the pissy undergraduates pissing their pissy freshers' spirit of youth everywhere."

Grace had to stifle a childish laugh, and she smiled as she put her holdall on her shoulder carefully.

"Yeah, passed one earlier on. I'll show you."

The two girls exited the Arts Centre, and walked down the main pathway of campus. Once getting their lighters, biscuits, nick-nacks and other bits of food from the corner shop, the girl, who named herself as Lisa Redmond, parked her bum on a picnic table in front of the Humanities Building. Few students were sat down, most of them undergraduates trying to find their allocated places. The girl lit her cigarette and lit Grace's also.

"You local, then?" began Lisa huskily, blowing her smoke out.

She had unusually large lips, noticed Grace. Her nails were chipped and black, and her skin looked like it had suffered over the years, but was glowing healthily now. Grace felt somewhat envious of this chic girl she had met in her class. But she sensed perhaps this girl was just as broken as she was.

"I'm from York originally. I've lived in Woking in Surrey since I was twelve. You?"

"Caerphilly. Wales. Shithole, if you ask me."

Grace tried not to laugh again, but Lisa noticed and laughed for her, the smoke rushing out of her nose. The girls chatted about their respective hometowns for a while. Her family had not contacted her at all, since she had been here. Still, they needed time to heal, and so did she. They stopped their nattering for a while, in contemplative mutual but comfortable silence, gazing around at the throng of students. Grace began to get the feeling that she might just be content here. But her feeling felt somewhat crushed when, among the crowds of people, stood lanky Jonathan Crane, his pinched face severe looking, as Dina walked beside him, somewhat jovially. No one should look that jovial beside him, she remarked in her mind.

"Oh Christ…" she muttered, catching Lisa out of her reverie.

Lisa blew her smoke out distractedly, pinching a chocolate HobNob biscuit out of Grace's packet on the table.

"What?" she asked, her face calm, laid-back as ever.

Grace nearly prayed they wouldn't see her sitting there. He had a somewhat large black satchel on his shoulder, which appeared as if it was stuffed with heavy books and a dark laptop case in his other hand. He seemed impartial to the cold, and only wore a light suit jacket. He looked like he was going to an interview although he was anything but smart. His charcoal-grey suit looked slightly tattered, and his tie clashed slightly with his sleeveless jumper underneath. Only his shoes, a shiny black, seemed the most presentable thing about him.

He must teach here sometimes, she thought.

"My weird, rude housemate," she replied without thinking.

"What is he, a lecturer?" asked Lisa. Grace's eyes drifted over his hair. Also scruffy.

"No, PhD student, doing psychology or something," she replied. Lisa stared at the short girl bouncing alongside him. He was completely ignoring her.

"Sounds snot-nosed," replied Lisa, frowning at Dina. Dina managed to catch sight of them staring with their mouths open, the packet of open HobNobs on the table, their rolled drooping fags in between their fingers. She pulled a smile of delight, tapping Crane briefly on the shoulder, bidding her goodbye. He just nodded and strolled off, his long legs taking him quickly out of view.

"…his hyena girlfriend…" Grace muttered again in exasperation. Lisa shrieked out in laughter, dropping her cigarette. This didn't faze Dina who was continuing to walk towards them, her chest rising and falling quickly.

"Hey, guys!" breathed Dina heavily, sounding as if she had just ran to campus instead of walking. They both replied with an 'alright.'

"How are you? Wanna grab a coffee, if you're not busy?" Clearly Grace Gilmartin had nothing better to do, but she felt her stomach drop to her arse. Lisa was trying her utmost best not to laugh, and she picked herself up from the picnic bench her face screwed up in her attempt. Dina was waiting there, the smile still plastered on her face. She had glistening white teeth, as most Americans seemed to have. Reluctantly she agreed, and Dina mouthed a 'great' and turned to face the café opposite them.

"Have a great time," murmured Lisa, patting her on the shoulder, plugging her earphones in as she walked away. Grace attempted a smile at the beaming Dina, and went to have a coffee. She didn't even like coffee.

* * *

Provoking Crane, and probably to an extreme, was more than just a hazardous action but Grace Gilmartin was hardly one to go gentle into that good night.

She'd pissed him off beyond belief it seemed, because by the time she returned home she heard male voices coming from the kitchen, the deeper, northern English sounding voice belonging to her landlord. The other belonged to her housemate, that soft-spoken rasp. Deciding to face the music, she dumped her holdall beside the staircase andwalked towards the kitchen. Her landlord was was short, bald, and had an impressive beer-belly on him; a rather comic alternative compared to Crane. His face was bunched up in annoyance, with Crane behind impassive. He had shrugged off his suit-jacket, and stood in his sleeveless jumper, shirt rolled up to his elbows. Careless mistake, she saw, for as an artist she had an incredibly observant eye. She saw there was a rather nasty burn mark on the underside of his arm. _Ouch_.

"Hi. You must be Grace…Gilmartin?" The landlord began.

"That would be me." She nearly added a 'sir' in sarcasm, but decided it would be an unwise move. Crane just kept his eyes unblinkingly on her. It was beginning to unnerve her.

"You were told specifically you weren't to smoke in the house," began the landlord, who had introduced himself impatiently as Steve thought of her crushed HobNobs came into her mind; they were right at the bottom of her holdall.

"There's a provided ash tray; you smoke on the balcony, but not in the house. If I receive another phone call about you smoking, I'll have to ask you to leave. That clear?"

She thought his attitude was somewhat off, but it probably suited Crane, who nearly pulled a smirk at her. She felt a blush creep to her cheeks. She felt like she was being scolded like a child. Steve left after several moments, having explained to Crane about the heating, which was going to be repaired within a week. He asked if everything had been working alright, and Crane replied quickly everything was fine, his death-glare mask still on. Steve, somewhat unnerved by his two strange tenants, left as swiftly as he had come. Grace clicked her tongue against the roof her mouth, tapping her fingers on the surface of the counter. He stared at her briefly before making a move to leave.

"I've known a lot of clever arseholes in my time, but you just take the bloody biscuit..."

Today just seemed to be a biscuit-themed day, she thought. Hobnobs and Steve bloody Hobbs. He stopped, his shoulders hunching forward, hands in his trouser pockets and spun around to face her. He was silent for a few moments, but barked out a high-pitched laugh. Then his face fell dramatically and he walked away, his shoes hard on the tiled floor. She barely heard him walk upstairs. An eerie feeling of displacement crept into her blood, as she heard the familiar hum of the refrigerator and the tapping of water from the tap. Forgetting his somewhat eccentric behaviour, she filled the kettle, deciding she'd start a bit of drawing this afternoon.


	6. An Exchange of Insults

He watched the clothes he wore day in, day out spin round and round the machine, soap sloshing about in the water. He was deep within his thoughts, lost in a haze of dark contemplation. His thoughts about his course. About the damp country, seemingly no different from damp Gotham, other than everything seemed to be much smaller; from the roads, to the cars, to the meals and the houses. He thought about the attic room. His cold hands clenched together, and his headache slowly eased itself. He'd been working on his thesis for half the day, the other half he'd been lecturing small groups of postgraduates who were studying psychology. He'd returned home just over an hour ago, checking the attic, then coming back down the stairs, listening. He stopped by her door, trying to hear whether she was there or not. _She was_. He could hear her irritating music and her feet thump-thump-thumping around. From the off, he could sense her low emotions and desperation.

His thoughts grew to his experim-

The door slammed noisily against the wall and he was instantly brought out of his meditation. It was Gilmartin, her cheeks red from the cold and her clothes soaked from the persistent rain. She hadn't noticed him, clearly in a world of her own with her headphones blasting away.

"You know that young chap from that Polish shop...he was really rude to me the other day..."

"Oh I dunno why they keep havin' all these foreign shops everywhere. We're overrun with immigrants..."

His eyes twitched at the sound of the locals who were behind him talking in that most dreadful, annoying vernacular. He saw that her movements were slow and jerky. She was agitated, despite her music blasting loud. Music that loud would be enough to agitate him. Thinking the better of it, she pulled off her soggy coat, and shoved it into the machine also, having to push hard. Her clothes beneath her coat were also soaked. She shakily pulled out her detergent and fabric conditioner and poured them into the machine's drawer. Slamming it hard, she slotted two coins in, and then stood back unsure what to do with herself, tapping her foot.

His fists were still clenched in his pockets, brushing familiar rough, coarse material…

Oh how he would love to-

"I say ban all the immigration in this country, it's turnin' into a nightmare it is…" Gilmartin looked up, sliding her headphones round her neck and nearly jumped when she saw him. He stood there casually, hands in his pockets, now feeling awkward that she'd caught him looking.

"Alright," she greeted him - a common greeting in this country - which left him unable to say anything for a mere moment. Feeling that being any ruder to her would work awfully in his favour he pulled a stiff smile.

"Good evening, Grace." She snorted at his reply. His jaw clenched as he looked over the tops of his glasses at her.

"Sorry...that was probably the most formal reply I've ever heard," she said. He straightened up, taking his hands out of his pockets. This was, he hated to admit, quite awkward, seeing as he didn't have anything further to say to her. Her eyes moved beyond him.

"Look, I feel we got off on the wrong foot. Shall we get a tea?" There was a small café at the back of the laundrette. A couple of tables covered in red checked cloth sat in front of a small counter, with a blackboard advertising various foods he'd never heard of, nor would he ever eat. Did she really think he would join her soaked person, at a probably _dirtied_ table, to sit with _her_ and drink _insipid_ tea? The other people were staring at him waiting for his reaction. Desperately clutching at the material in his pocket, he forced himself to move over to her. She ordered two large cups of tea, and sat them down on the table.

"Oh come on, Jonathan, I'm not going to bite," she joked when she saw him still standing. Her behaviour surprised him. The way she pronounced his name, the way it rolled off her tongue, sent the hairs on his arms to stand up on end. His dislike for her was still the predominant emotion. Her kind behaviour repulsed him slightly - what did she hope to benefit from such a communication? Where was that agitated girl that had snuck in about five minutes ago? Why hadn't he added to that agitation? It was clear to him that his rude behaviour had irritated her.

"You're the last person whom I think would _bite_ me," he replied. He sat down mechanically keeping his eyes on her face. Her mouth moved a little in amusement.

"So he has humour," Gilmartin replied, leaning back in her chair triumphantly, as if she just achieved something. "I thought you were all ice and no fire." He did not touch the tea. He thought he could see the germs on the rim of the mug.

"From what I've tasted in desire, I hold with those who favour fire," he quoted. Her eyes wavered in confusion.

"Robert Frost, a poet," he drawled.

"Didn't think you'd be into literature," she said, raising one of her curved eyebrows.

"Of course. I was particularly enamoured by James Joyce's _Ulysses_ when I was younger. Although my oh-so-wonderful great-grandmother didn't approve."

"I'm not surprised," she laughed. "We read it in school. That book made my toes curl." His mouth pressed together in a thin line, trying not to respond to this with an insult. His eyes roved over her briefly. Her clavicles were emphasised by the boat-necked shirt she was wearing. He could see her black bra showing slightly through the wetness of the shirt. He saw, as he moved a centimetre closer, little purple pin prick marks on the underside of one of her arms. She'd looked away from him in thoughts of her own, not sensing his intense study. He was not stupid. What she didn't know was he was an expert in psychology and reading people like open books. He knew the only way for her to pull the sleeves up of her shirt was for her to feel warm, hot even. So he could only do what he wanted through manipulation, subtle at that. She drunk her tea quite quickly; her cheeks still rosy, heightened further by its warmth. He pushed his own mug towards her in a gesture, fingers brushing accidentally against her own. He gave her one of his thin-lipped smiles. He knew it didn't suit him, he probably looked garishly vulgar in the mirror, but it seemed to have worked on her.

"You seem to like tea, a lot…" he remarked slowly, eyes roving over her again. "Does it calm you? You seem tense, this evening." She was beginning to become uncomfortable under his gaze.

"I can't live without tea…I'm insulted you didn't want yours though," she said, smiling, joking again. Ignoring his observation.

"Well I am flattered by the offer," he said conversationally, holding her gaze still. "Unfortunately launderette tea is not a favourite of mine." Hating it, he pulled a good-humoured look. Now blushing, Gilmartin pushed the sleeves up her arms unaware of her actions. He bluntly ignored what she was saying now and stared closely at her arms. There was an incredible ugly purple mark on the inside of her elbow. It was a scar, but it was discoloured and shaped like a burst vein. It was about ten centimetres long. He glanced over to the other arm, which was the same although lacking a large scar. He good-humouredly listened to her while she blabbered on about something inane or other. When she realised that he was clearly not listening, a dark look passed over her face.

"Well, see you later then," she spoke huffily, and moved off, scraping the chair back loudly. The door slammed with a clang.

"Scared her off, have you?" one of the male customers spoke to him, somewhat jokingly. He heard, but smiled, still staring after Gilmartin.

"Not yet…" he murmured.

* * *

Grace spent at least an entire day, which was Thursday, avoiding him.

_Him_. She couldn't say she didn't try. She was lonely and just wanted a housemate who she could make friends with. It seemed he didn't want a friend at all. It was difficult to avoid him as it was her day off, but she managed going to campus without seeing him in the house. He probably was closed up in his room or in a seminar. It could've been likely that she might have seen him on campus; even so, her plan was to ignore him. She suddenly felt terribly lonely as she sat in the arts centre, which had several bright rooms with large windows for students to do their work. She was glad to have made a friend such as Lisa, but with no contact with her parents and living with an unfriendly housemate didn't help things. She saw all the other students, again mostly undergraduates, going about in little groups, chatting noisily over each other. She wondered where Lisa was. No-nonsense Lisa who'd probably have Crane's balls from the start. She only wished she could grow more of a shell. She suspected something about Crane. She sensed that he was going to use the tiny titbit of information he'd found out about her and use it against her. He might spread rumours about her, telling Dina who would also natter to her own friends. She also sensed that he was trying to assert his control over her by telling her not to smoke. He'd caught her, a day ago before the laundrette trip, smoking by the back door with it open. It had been raining, and she purposely remembered to be diligent by using the ashtray, and spraying a can of room-spray around the kitchen. Hoping he wouldn't smell it, but he did and the next thing she was cornered in the kitchen like a mouse by a cat. His way of talking to her angered her at first, but she simply let it go after a while. It was no use getting worked up over him, she told herself.

Lisa had briefly popped in to say hello, complaining about her upcoming STI test, slacking off some 'dickhead'. She said she was quite worried about the results. She glanced at Grace, watching closely to see her reaction, afraid of her response but to be honest Grace Gilmartin couldn't be less judgemental. Lisa seemed to be a saviour in this little dank town, a town which Grace had not even explored yet. All she knew was that it had a small medieval town centre, with a supermarket, and a beautifully built church at the core. She remembered she had brought her camera, which was shoved somewhere deep in the inner-pockets of her holdall. Grace decided to go into a carping match to keep it level with Lisa, sensing she needed it, and complained, for ten whole minutes, about her impertinent housemate. She probably exaggerated, creating him into more of a monster than he really was, but it was strangely satisfying. She felt the usual, but unpleasant fulfilment you get from complaining about another human being, particularly one you felt was damaging that moral code you so upheld. That certain satisfaction brought her back to her young teenage years at school. Lisa watched her new friend in fascination, but it was nothing dissimilar she'd heard before. There were all kinds of housemates; pity the girl ended up with the jerk. Lisa patted her black leather jacket pockets, a filter tip in her mouth.

"You got any baccy? We need a baccy-fill and coffee. Or tea. I have a brilliant idea. Actually, it's a fucking _amazing_ idea."

So they trailed to their now favourite designated spot, a bench in a small little garden that was behind the 19th century buildings that surrounded the courtyard. Lisa sipped on coffee while Grace had her usual tea, this time being chai tea, one of her personal favourites. Lisa told her good idea, but had to stall for she was late for a meeting with her personal tutor. Instead, leaving the plan to another day, Grace walked home, the sun lower in the sky. She decided she wasn't going to let Crane continue playing his smug dominant card, and further irritated him by making the place messy.

* * *

He returned home rather late that night to find the kitchen in disarray. Dirty plates, cutlery and crockery were strewn about thoughtlessly. There were little bits of food clogging up the plug in the sink. Dirty water with more pieces of food swirling around, sat there smelling. A tea-towel's surface was smudged with a charcoal-like substance, probably burnt food. The cooker's exterior was dirtied, around the gas hobs. The counter's surfaces were covered in crumbs, and bits of smeared food. He felt his skin crawl with fury when he finally stopped analysing the kitchen, and put his thin black briefcase on the floor, in a spot which wasn't in a puddle. There she was; what he felt like his adversary right at this precise moment, half hanging out on the balcony, smoking a cigarette.

"Alright, Jon," she addressed him somewhat loudly, and bluntly.

He walked over to his cupboard, and saw the usual had happened. What was the matter with this girl? He nearly let his irritation overpower him for a mere moment, realising that becoming angry in her presence would be her intended goal. He span back round, wiping his thin hands on his suit jacket, adjusting his glasses mechanically. He cleared his throat. He stood there for a good minute, just scrutinising her. She couldn't look at him properly in the eye, because the light from the overhead hanging lamp caught off his lenses. Then, he walked over to her, making sure he was very close to her, but not close to produce the wrong impression. After all, he wasn't seducing her for Pete's sake.

"Cease your _pathetic_ tricks, Gilmartin. Also please don't let me remind you again about the smoking."

"God, you talk so posh, like," she scoffed, smoke billowing out her nostrils. "Cease what, my good sir?" He repressed the urge to cough. She was really, really pushing his buttons today. He'd become recently frustrated with his work, and this woman was the last thing he needed. She made a great notion of frowning and staring around her, presenting a confused façade.

"I've really got no idea what you're on about." He paused, breathing in slowly. Looking down at her over his glasses, he pulled a sly smile.

"You think yourself funny, Gilmartin," he said. "I know what you are. You're one of those unremarkable self-absorbed millennials, shabby in your try-hard arty clothing with little taste, always miserable, always moaning how life is so unfair. Ma and Pa might've given you a good upbringing but you're not more than one accent away from common chav. You could only dream of getting away from it all, but look where it's ended you...Sad and lost, scratching at the walls...Desperate to convince everyone you're doing this degree for a reason, and that you're _happy_ with it all. So desperate to create a persona to cover that shameful junkie habit."

Her limbs froze. His nostrils had flared when he'd spoken, and a tiny bit of spit found its way onto her cheek. Her mouth hung open a little in shock. Satisfied by her reaction, a pleasant shiver cascading itself down his spine upon seeing the fear on her face, he turned around picking his briefcase up. He rolled his shoulders forward a couple of times, as if shaking off his previous annoyance. Her jaw clamped in sudden anger. Before she could reply, he spoke again as he turned.

"Oh and don't forget to clean the kitchen. I don't want to come down to find the place in a pig sty again." A great line enveloped along her forehead, one that was of anger. She was trying to mask her fear. Was that what it was - she was _afraid_ of him finding out, yet it had only taken a matter of a few days…He clicked his tongue against his teeth in approval. She pushed herself away from the doorway angrily and left the room. He too walked off, satisfied, fisting the scratchy material in his pocket.

* * *

A tremendous blush had crept on her face, even though he was gone and she'd already left the room. He'd shamed her, like she'd been some naughty child. He'd insulted her deeply. And to top it off, he somehow knew that she was an ex-addict. How? _Well, I can see why he studies psychology. Can read me like a open book. A massively open book with all the pages on display._ She glanced at a photograph in a pretty frame by her bedside table in her room. Her granny, her mum's mum whom she'd lost a couple of years ago. Common. Chav. Shabby. Unremarkable. His words danced around in her head and she felt tears prickle at her eyes. It hurt because she knew it was true. Her granny's smiley face looked back at her softly. The thing was, she didn't ignore his request to clean the kitchen, even if it was her intention to piss him off by creating a mess, or 'pig sty' as he so eloquently named it. Somehow she felt afraid of annoying him now, and couldn't bear to feel embarrassed like she had done today. She scrubbed the place down and caught her face in the shiny reflection on the kettle. _Am I really that shabby?_ The following day, she invited Lisa round. The girl lived on the other side of town and usually took buses everywhere. By the time she'd arrived, Grace was still in her dressing gown, smoking by the back door, mug of tea in her left hand. Lisa came round with a variety of food, plenty of tobacco, and her iPod. The last thing she brought in was a huge stack of old newspapers in a carrier bag. She waved her hand dismissively when Grace knitted her brow.

"My housemate, Shit Nate, likes to obsessively collect newspapers."

"Why 'Shit Nate'?"

"He's in a band and he's shit."

"Guess I'm not the only one with a weird housemate," smiled Grace.

"Shit Nate and I have been pranking loads of students we don't like at the moment. Wanna prank Crane?" Grace jumped at the idea. Nodding her head in agreement, the two girls soon played post-punk music extremely loud, until they put their little prank into action a damn good prank. A popular student prank at that. She'd heard of much worse though. Her last university was on the coast, and one boy had left his room unlocked for the weekend. His flatmates decided it was a good idea to turn his room into a seaside resort, adding a dead fish into the shower for a finishing effect. The smell was ever present after that, and the sand was eternally stamped into the carpet. Unfortunately, Feston was miles from the coast.

"It's like playing pass the parcel, or Christmas," commented Lisa.

They wrapped each of his items up in newspaper. Grace found that his room was locked, unfortunately, but they covered his door in newspaper anyway. They wrapped everything they could find that belonged to him, sniggering with laughter the entire time. It took at least three hours, and they got rid of any incriminating evidence. She had particular fun coming to all his products in the bathroom. She picked around at it for a little too long. She glanced at his razor, seeing stray dark hairs within the blades. She looked at his bog-standard toothbrush, the bristles bent far over, signalling he hadn't renewed his toothbrush for over six months. She wrapped everything, including his dressing gown, which was hung up on the back of the door. Suddenly she felt rather out of place, touching his dressing gown. It felt too personal, more so than wrapping his bathroom products. Bending down, she pressed the tip of her nose into the rim of the dressing gown. It smelt of shampoo. She saw a couple of short curled pieces of hair on its rim, and shuddered. She then smelt the torso of the gown. A strange aroma of body odour, mustiness of the house and his shampoo lingered on it. _Ugh, what was she doing?_

"Hahahaha! Gracie you gotta come look at this – this is so bloody hilarious…."

Grace was startled out of her little trance, her heart suddenly pacing a little quicker. She ran down the stairs to find Lisa. Lisa had done a rather brilliant job of wrapping everything that was in the unused living room.

"It's disgusting in 'ere. Jeeze, does he not even _hoover_ the place?" said Lisa.

"I don't think he even goes in here. I haven't." She flinched when she saw a spider move a little in its cobweb in the corner of the musty room. Now in its light, she saw in front of her a black Victorian fireplace. A poker and shovel sat beside it, and there was a large cauldron-like pot of coal. The sofas were covered in a plastic coating, as if they were being preserved. They were tasteless and gaudy in colour, their floral patterns almost hallucinatory. The floor was wooden; a dark kind of wood, and in front of the fireplace was an ancient looking rug. Lisa rubbed her arms.

"This room is really creepy Grace…Let's go. Still have loads of newspapers...So many potential victims...You can just crash round mine if you like. In case he freaks out."

"He'll definitely freak out..."

Smiling, the two girls packed up and left, the sky darkening outside. However, when they left, Grace locking the door behind her, she heard Lisa muttering. Frowning, she turned round, her breath showing up in the cold air. She saw Crane coming down the end of the street, holding his briefcase. He wasn't wearing a coat and didn't seem to be affected by it. He wasn't enthralled to see them either. Grace just stared at him. Her heart began to pound hard in her chest. For some reason, he'd quickened his pace, but Lisa was already tugging on her sleeve.

"Mate, let's go…"

They headed off, their legs breaking into a run. Lisa began cackling with laughter, but Grace wasn't. They ran all the way down the road to the opposite end of the street. The streets were quiet, and the orange light from the streetlamps emitted a hazy, amber glow. But Grace couldn't laugh, as she walked beside Lisa, towards a familiar bus stop. A couple of other students were waiting, chatting amongst each other. For the first time, something hit her, a feeling of desolation and eeriness. The dark night had a sinister atmosphere about it, and she realised there might be more to Crane than she realised. However, as she arrived at Lisa's six bedroom rented house, music booming above her, she began to think she was just overreacting and that Crane was just a stuck-up git.

* * *

**Notes**:

Some say the world will end in fire,  
Some say in ice.  
From what I've tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire.  
But if it had to perish twice,  
I think I know enough of hate  
To say that for destruction ice  
Is also great  
And would suffice.

\- Robert Frost (1920)


End file.
